The Center of Attention: A OneSided DH Story
by teacuptea
Summary: 7 years of a one-sided obsession/love on Draco's part with a certain Harry Potter. Angst and sad face for Draco : Rated T for the terrible tries of Draco Malfoy.
1. Prologue

It is not difficult to understand that I am perpetually the center of attention. Contrived laughs, exquisite robes, crystal goblets and burst camera bulbs paint my childhood like the night sky: all are for me. The most lavish parties, the finest wands, the fastest brooms sink their material claws into the dreadful drones that shadow me, hoping to one day taste the affluence that cocoons me. The perfectly constructed shell, as translucent as the flesh on my bones, as beautifully assembled as a porcelain doll: ivory skin, stormy eyes, flaxen hair, svelte build. Elegance and iciness rising from every breath, seeping from every pore.

Whether with reckless admiration or grudging respect, nauseating love or visceral hatred, I am always on the tip of everyone's tongues. And every word is threaded into another layer of the shell in which I ensconce myself, impenetrable. To prey, but not be preyed upon. To be looked at, but never to look.

Funny how a single person, with a single breath, a single glare, a single _no_ can shatter the shell into thousands of shards of silver.

Funny how raw, how vulnerable, how naked I am in his presence.

Funny how desperately, like a starved animal, I long for his touch, his taste, his soft words.

Funny how I couldn't care less about how weak I have become.

Funny how he couldn't care less about me.

* * *

**Author's note goes here! Hey everyone, my name is teacuptea, the oddly cheery author of this terribly angsty fanfiction!**

**Now I've read some AMAZING Harry Potter fanfiction, which is all well and good, but I feel as though the strong possibility in terms of the canon story arc is that, really, whatever went on between Harry and Draco was strictly one-sided, on the latter's part. Him not being the most normal bush of the bunch, I feel as though these strong sentiments may have bordered on an angsty, dramatic, and, knowing Draco, slightly creepy obsession. That is really all I'm trying to relay through this story! ^^**

**Anyway, not to get TOO long with this first note, but since I already had the first two chapters on hand, here they all smushed up. I should be writing more very soon, as I have a lot of time on my hands so hopefully, they will come sooner than later. **

**Flamers will be [insert clever pun on how they will be obliterated]. Reviews are always welcome, as I am a needy child. :D**

**~teacuptea**


	2. Chapter 1: First Encounters

To say that it was love at first sight would not only be infinitely trite and idiotic, but also be untrue. Silver and emerald never coalesced for the most delicious of seconds, sparks and shivers never erupted in the most profound parts of the heart: only fools believe in that. Love does not exist, only desire. And like a fine wine, desire languidly breathes its glorious scent into the air, the intoxicating taste growing stronger and stronger with the passing time.

To me, the heart of desire always smelt like clover and mint. The scent tangled in his raven hair, laughing on his sun-kissed shoulders, whispering into the air with his every step.

The scent that was the closest thing to a tangible part of him that I could have.

The initial sentiment, however, was not desire: it was a selfish attraction to all the words that preceded him. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy: I could hardly contain my excitement. A boy who, like me, had crafted the perfect smile for countless photographs, could artfully charm a person into guarded alliances. A boy with whom I could share the delicious discoveries I had made about social etiquette and manipulation of the populace. A boy who was perpetually the center of attention. A boy who, more importantly, would make _me_ even more commanding of attention.

To my infinite disappointment, I was only right about one statement: that he commanded attention. At eleven years in a train cart going to a dreary academy I took no interest in, even then, I saw him for the first time and was appalled. _This is the great Boy Who Lived?_ A lanky, slight boy with chaotic inky hair, hollow cheekbones, a slightly pasty complexion, dreary clothes and the most _unbecoming_ pair of spectacles I had ever seen in my life. In my eyes, he was positively dreadful. Father had been right; his very existence was due solely to sheer dumb luck. He was, much to my chagrin, completely insignificant.

For all the time I spent overanalyzing his countenance, I was oblivious to what hid behind his hideous spectacles. The strength, the nobility, the sheer _good_ that crackled wildly in those large emerald orbs did not overthrow me, did not send shivers racing through my veins as though a thousand bubbles had burst simultaneously within me. Not yet.

That moment would come when he would pointedly refused my hand and, of _all_ people, take Weasley's instead. A low-class, insipid hothead who possessed the wit and charm of a troll: it was inconceivable. How dare he dismiss a pureblood from a family that had sown its seeds of wealth and influence long before that carrot family began spawning their secondhand children, before _his_ family came into being! How pathetic was he to be won over by nauseating praise of a ginger imbecile and a bushy-haired little twit!

Five years later, I can still remember the words murmured by that soft mouth that changed everything: _I think I can tell who are the wrong sort for myself, thanks._ The iciness that made me look for the first time into the scintillating pools of green that would paint the sky in my mind forever. The intensity of his gaze, of _him._ Thirteen dismissive words that chased away the rumors and whispered words to reveal the soul and the bane of my existence: Harry Potter.

With painful lucidity, I remember the chill that went down my spine as I realized the cataclysmic event that had just happened, completely shattering the foundation of my eleven selfish years: I had been ignored.

I wince as I think of the solemn oath I took to myself as I entered the Great Hall for the first time, absorbed in my own thoughts: to never be ignored by Harry Potter again. However much he'd want to toss me aside and never speak to me, I vowed to never let him, lividly chanting that he would remember Draco Malfoy. Sorted into our respective Houses and tucking into the first feast, I tossed my hair nonchalantly and smirked to myself: he was going to eat his words.

If only, if only I had known.

* * *

**Author's note goes here: So, I may have forgotten to mention this, but the story's development will be across the years that Malfoy knew Harry. As much as I loved the books, I did not pay fantastically close attention to ALL the details, so I MAY inadvertently just make stuff up. If it's REALLY inaccurate, please point it out to me! Otherwise, enjoy my potentially slightly AU story. **

** This part focuses on their very first encounter on the eve of their first year, on the Hogwarts Express; next chapter about first year! Hurrah, except not for Draco. :P**

**Flamers will be subject to a clever pun on obliteration and reviews are always welcome! :)**

**~teacuptea**


	3. Chapter 2: First Year

And so began my contempt for Harry Potter: not a day passed without his concoctions in Potions exploding in his face, or inches mysteriously disappearing from his Transfiguration parchments. I stabbed at his famous virtue every day, my sour, sardonic words stinging him under his skin like thousands of insidious splinters.

Or so I presumed.

Virtually every waking moment of my Hogwarts years was spent lounging on the overstuffed forest green divan in the Slytherin common room, devising my next plan to get at Harry Potter. As my materialistic, infinitely desirable shell burgeoned into a glorious, impenetrable armor that rendered me virtually invincible to the cruel world that surrounded me, I developed a mantra to my life at Hogwarts: to get at Harry Potter.

Perhaps, had I been gifted with better emotional understanding of myself, and perhaps a little more honesty, I may have realized that even at the budding age of eleven, I was inadvertently shaping every shielded fiber of my being around the obsession that was slowly consuming me.

It was all for him. For him, and only him.

However colorful and creative the next plan was, the _pièce de résistance_ remained the same: his reaction. It was timeless: his warm fingers pressing hard into my shoulder, spinning me around. His strong jaw tightened, his teeth bared slightly, like a refined beast on the brink of attacking. Anger crackled and crashed like roaring emerald waves in those enormous orbs for eyes: I could feel the rage, like salt, melt on my tongue and fill my ears. The world around became a series of still frames with colors swirling and merging into a seamless grey, moving at a lethargic pace while Harry's wrath descended upon me.

Upon me, and only me.

Eventually Harry learned to cast Sealing Charms on his parchments thanks to the Granger twit, and began to be more wary of where he put his things. Slowly but surely, he grew attuned to my obsessive, vindictive antics and developed a simple skill that rolled and crashed within my soul with such vibrato, even the thought could send me reeling.

With a shrug of his sun-kissed shoulder and an off-handed wave of his bony hand, he could dismiss me. Simply throw whatever foolery I had hatched up for him to the wind, gone in an instant as a Disapparating wizard. To be less histrionic, he could very well ignore me.

In my naïve, conceited mind, it was positively inconceivable for such a thing to happen: did he not know who I am? I, descended from the great Malfoy family, the most prominent of the elite pureblood families? Did he not understand the gravity of such circumstance, the prestige of my very name?

I realized too late that, to use vulgarity more akin to filth of the Weasley sort, though most certainly suitable in this situation, he couldn't have given _less_ of a shit about what I was. It was the interior, the _heart_ that counted, the message of his very core that bitterly haunts me to this day. In order to even _begin_ to gain distinction in his eyes, I had to prove myself worthy, valiant and true.

By the time this realization dawned upon me, it was already too late; as an early spring swept through the Hogwarts grounds of my first year, I was utterly and completely consumed by Harry Potter.

* * *

**Author's note goes here: So here is what I have thus far: I'd like to point out that I really am using the most elegantly pretentious and pretentiously elegant language possible to convey Malfoy's voice; I don't know, I always felt that he was exactly the type to talk like that. The format of the subsequent chapters will be slightly different, just a heads up, but don't worry, I doubt it'll change the dynamic of the story!**

**As always, flamers will be subject to a clever obliterating pun and reviews are more than welcome!**

**Also, I've changed my account name (not to inconvenience anyone...) to teacuptea. Just because. **

**~teacuptea**


	4. Chapter 3: Second Year

On the eve of my second year, two events played a crucial part in my life at age twelve. One, Harry discovered the true extent of his Quidditch prowess; two, I vested all of my time, energy and means into besting him at the ruffian sport.

Reflecting upon it now, I have to divulge that I did not particularly care for Quidditch; in my view, it was a sport reserved for a rather obscure, ostracized class, that could not be defined as truly beneath me, and _certainly_ not above me. In other words, to me, Quidditch players were a distant manifestation of sorts upon whom I could not really voice a true opinion, _with _perhaps the exception of the Chudley Cannons, who are simply the dregs of the wizarding world. To give an idea of my perspective, it does not exactly astonish me that their biggest fan was the youngest Weasley mongrel.

This did not detract, however, from my very hearty dive into the subject matter. The holidays before my second year was spent secluded in the alcove of the attic of Malfoy Manor, stuffed between my favorite enormous emerald green cushion and a vast pile of articles, parchments and encyclopedias; in under a month, I could recite _Quidditch Through the Ages_ cover to cover. When I was not sequestered within my household, I was busying myself training with the very best coaches the wizarding world and my father's connections had to offer; Potter may have had natural talent, but my good breeding and noble status could hone me into a Quidditch champion.

Or so I thought. If I could ever use a Time Turner, I would give my foolish, smug twelve year old self a good smack; the very _idea_ that I could beat Harry Potter with three months of qualifications in a sport that did not impassion me in the least was positively ludicrous. It was far too late in the game, no pun intended, when I realized what thrill I ever got from Quidditch was not, in any respect, related to the actual sport.

And so at the start of my second year, I quickly bought out the Slytherin Quidditch team with the finest brooms and costumes of that time, producing the exact effect I wanted: garnering Harry Potter's undivided attention. He bitterly resented my effortless rise to power in Hogwarts' athletics, which, for all his natural talent, had still required much effort and time on his part. I very well _basked_ in his wrath at my use of cunning and manipulation to eliminate the competition, versus his honorable and intensive play as a true Quidditch player.

To borrow a useful vulgarity from the Weasley mongrels, I was a complete and absolute twat. It did not matter to me, however: as long as I could revel in his undivided, albeit hateful, attention, I was content.

The highlight of my second year was, without question, the Quidditch Tournament final, a deadly classical match of Gryffindor vs. Slytherin; and as I would discover far too late for my own sanity, it was the highlight of my second year for all the wrong reasons.

I could bore with such trivial details as Gryffindor Chaser Angela Johnson's hideous faux-pas or the overzealous Scot Gryffindor Keeper's undoing; perhaps even my favorite highlight, the Weasley Beaters getting duly smashed into a pulp by my own conniving teammates, but I shan't. In all honesty, there was a single exhilarating experience that I gleaned from the damned sport: being a Seeker. Specifically, one against Harry Potter.

If he already had an intrinsic hidden power and presence on solid ground, he was positively majestic in the air. His irrefutably chaotic locks whipping around his strong, focused face, his form slender, agile and, quite simply, _flawless_; Harry was, without question, in his element playing Quidditch. As we raced after the mischievous winged ball, I was absolutely stupefied by the intensity of his gaze: never had a seen such fervent concentration, such undivided attention to a single object, such pure, passionate _joy_ at the sport.

I will never forget the moment his emerald orbs finally looked up to meet my own eyes; with a flash of spiteful teeth and a careless toss of his head, he whipped past me and caught the Snitch. Slytherin lost miserably to Gryffindor that year in Quidditch, and I could not have cared less. All that mattered was that for that brief moment, I had shared an experience with Harry Potter.

It was then, and only then, as we shamefully left the Grounds, that a peculiar, unfortunate idea began to niggle the back of my mind; that perhaps the joy I had found in Quidditch was not due to the sport itself, but due to a person in particular who played it. Foolishly, I found this idea affable, as well as jarring, and quickly dismissed it.

Despite having quit the team that year and never touching a Quidditch-associated parchment of my own will again, I never realized the terrifying veracity of that idea until it was too late. When the extent of this truth finally dawned upon me in the spring of my third year, I was already entirely devoted, with every fiber of my being, to Harry Potter.

* * *

**Author's Note goes here! Back again with the next chapter: apologies for the delay, I'm pretty artful at procrastination (so made it a little longer to compensate...). :P Anyway, here is Draco's second year!**

**The main thing I tried to convey in this chapter was how gradually, despite Draco's seemingly initial vindictive and evil intentions, he really is seeking out Harry's attention in the best of views. In other words, he's really falling for him and he can't help himself, the unfortunate soul. :P**

**Anyway, look out for third year, where Draco will be positively evil, practically punishing Harry (and kinda himself...) for his attraction to him (Draco's attraction to Harry...that was a confusing sentence, if ever there was). Poor, mildly psychotic Draco. :P**

**Flamers will be obliterated by an awesomely clever pun and reviews are always welcome!**

**~teacuptea**


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